Ghouls, Story 3 of 4: Lenore's Story
by OllieLemur
Summary: Lenore, a Nos' favorite ghoul, worries about their Sabbat connections. "With Cam-held NYC rocked by the frenzy-inducing Red Plague, the fallout reshapes the lives of those unfortunates connected to Kindred society." T or M rating, not sure. Language.


**Ghouls**

**Part Three: Lenore**

I wait an extra minute gathering myself in the maintenance elevator. The machine is crying at me for holding down the DOORS OPEN button, but it's not like there are many people using it at this hour.

Finally, I get to the roof-access door at the top of the hotel. I formulate a plan, and hope that it will work. Because if I came all the way up here just to be freaked out, I'm going to hit something.

I take a deep breath, push open the door, and walk out into the early morning sunshine.

The roof of _La Dorna_ is empty of any sign to indicate that, below me, is a posh historic hotel once run by the most powerful vampire in the city. No pool. No garden. Not even lawn furniture to relax in. Instead, there's half a dozen vents and fans, a large electrical panel, a network of pipes, and debris from a few hundred employee cigarette breaks. I'm sure if I looked for them, I'd find the used condoms of half those breaks as well. Hey, just because a vamp's powerful doesn't mean his staff's always going to be perfect angels.

Oh, yeah, speaking of…

Kyle's up here, too.

I walk over to where they dragged him last night. Thankfully, he's in the very center of the roof and far from the edges. He has collapsed to his knees, his arms spread wide, and his wrists and ankles chained between two pipes.

A girl is sitting near him. Like Kyle, she's facing away from the roof-access door. She leans against one of the pipes. There is a shoulder bag in front of her and a sports bottle at her side filled with something clear. If she's being nice, it's water. If she knows Kyle, it's vodka.

As I close the distance between us, I forget that we're almost forty-stories up and get a better look at the damage done to my coworker.

Zane had warned me what he had to do to Kyle late last night. It was Kyle's punishment for his unwitting part in the Elysium Massacre at _Sang's_. Though I felt Kyle had been guilty of negligence, not any premeditated maliciousness, what was done was done. And I understood that a Justicar had ordered the flogging. Not much Zane could have argued with, not unless he wanted us to be on the run again, this time from the Camarilla as well as the Sabbat.

Eleven strikes with a Roman whip, a nasty piece of leatherwork with shards of glass and bone embedded at the tips of the thongs. That was Kyle's punishment. One strike for each vampire killed at our club.

Someone—perhaps the girl?—had been kind and wrapped him in a blanket during the night.

She sees me now, too. At first her body tenses as if preparing flee or to attack, but she must recognize me because she does neither. Another moment and she has relaxed again, nodding at me.

I bend down behind Kyle and whisper my hello. He gives no reply. He is fast asleep, a merciful thing.

Careful of the injuries I know hide beneath it, I lift the blanket a few inches to inspect.

The scourging has left Kyle's back and parts of his neck gouged and scraped. It appears that at least someone bandaged him up, but if he received more than that for medical treatment I cannot tell.

It must hurt like a son of a bitch. Wouldn't be a punishment if it didn't, right? Kyle can take it. I mean, he's had worse before when Zane was feeling experimental with his sadistic side.

What doesn't make sense and what has me concerned, though, is the continued abuse Zane told me the Justicar had meted out.

For two days, one for each of the vampires still missing from three weeks ago, Kyle would be strapped to the roof of _La Dorna_, the hotel of the now-deceased Prince of New York. Apparently, the old Prince got chowed down on at that meeting last night. His punishment for not informing the rest of his vampie buddies about this Red Plague bullshit.

He got off easy.

For Kyle, after the next two days, he has to suffer three months without access to the Blood. One month for each of the Primogen, the heads of their vampiric lines, who were lost or killed and in need of replacements. Without the potency of the Blood, I know Kyle's wounds might not heal properly. They certainly will scar, deep and painful.

Beyond that, without the Blood… he'll start to age.

I know Zane doesn't see it as such, with the way he casually mentioned it to me, but I have to assume the Justicar was trying to punish _him_ with the rest of Kyle's sentence after the whip. Whether it will affect him or not requires time. Zane probably hasn't considered the implications yet.

Or perhaps he has and, _bello mostro mio, _he simply cannot be bothered to care.

Kyle is not the first to join us. He won't be the last. He's simply the most persistent. For that, I have to admit a slight fondness for him. I dislike seeing him here tormented with no hope of reprieve, no safe word, no promise of sex or drugs or Blood at the end.

It wasn't technically his fault that the hookers were spiked with Red Plague: the first batch had been pristine, from the same Madam and everything. But all right, sure, I get it. The Cam need a fall guy, and some unproven vamp only a year in the city with ties to the Sabbat must have looked pretty appealing. But instead of going after Zane directly—and possibly causing him to say, "You know what, fuck this joint; I'm going home and I'm taking my new-found Cam secrets with me"—they pretend they're making a statement. And they punish the ghoul, the servant who would have done what Zane told him to do even if it _had_ been intentional. What was that supposed to do? Frighten all the Kindred into never taking on ghouls because they might have to hurt them?

Far as I'm concerned, the Prince shouldn't have had his party at _Sang's_ at all. It had been a bogus idea to begin with, totally spiteful, and everyone else at the club knows it.

I exhale sharply, trying to push out the anger. I sit down in front of Kyle, cross-legged on the ground, and finally recognize his caretaker.

Danya, the desk clerk for _La Dorna_, the Prince's secretary, probably his ghoul as well.

She speaks first. "They told me I had to stay here. To make sure no one frees him. You're not planning anything, right?"

I shake my head.

"Good. They told me I could feed him when he is able, and give him some water to drink."

"He'd be happy for some liquor."

Danya says, "Do you want to help him or hurt him?"

I snicker. "What about some shade? That against the rules?"

"It was not specifically mentioned… though I suspect it would bring disapproval."

"Fuck approval. This hotel has beds? Can you call for some sheets?"

Danya's on her phone texting as I ask. When one of the house keepers arrives on the roof a few minutes later, I let her stand up and collect the bedding. In silence, we set up a make-shift tent over the pipes of Kyle's prison then crawl under it ourselves.

It's a few degrees cooler out of the direct sunlight, which is what matters.

* * *

We sit with Kyle, neither of us having anything to say to the other. What would I want to say to her anyway? She isn't the reason all this happened; her boss is. And he's already been dealt with.

I go through half a pack of cigarettes. I offer to Danya, but she doesn't smoke. I wish Kyle could have one.

For his part, Kyle wakes from what seem like nightmares every half hour or so and only for moments before passing back out. In that time, Danya moves swiftly to put liquid down his throat. He's too dehydrated to urinate, so I don't worry about how we'll deal with the bathroom situation.

One time, in later afternoon, he is conscious for a minute. But he won't take the soft bread Danya had stored in her bag. His jaw won't work to chew, and I tell her not to bother in case he can't swallow either.

Wait and hope, that's all I can do. Wait and hope.

I don't know what inspires Danya to talk the second time, but the sun is setting when she does.

"The club owner," she says, "the Italian Nosferatu?"

I tense. I don't like that she even knows that much about Zane. "What about him?"

"He is your domitor, yes?"

The use of the formal title sends a shiver across my skin. It's been lifetimes since I last heard that word and, technically yes, that's what vampire society thinks of Zane as to me. But I would never consider _him_ that.

Rather than argue or share more than I need to, I nod.

Danya stares off at the sun as it dips between the tall, bland buildings of the New York skyline. She says, "You are lucky then. He will be rising soon."

Ah, chickie, you had to say that, didn't you?

I refuse to be this ghoul's shoulder to cry on. Her vamp broke most of the promises he made to Zane. Her vamp said we'd be free from the chase and the attacks. Turned out the whole city of Kindred had been smiling through their teeth as Zane settled in, thinking he was protecting us.

I will not forgive that, and I will not mourn for Balo Maier. But…. if she needs to talk, well, the sun hasn't quite set yet. I can pretend to listen.

As if she senses my distaste evaporating, Danya begins to speak at me.

"I don't know what is to become of me. Master Balo made no separate plans for any of us, just as he made no plans for this hotel. He didn't expect to meet Final Death last night, that I can be sure of." She continues, "Lady de Pompadour and Mr. Pembroke have not mentioned any options. I suspect, like me, they are still in mourning. If they have any hearts to break, that is."

Knowing what little I do of Cressida de Pompadour, Primogen of the art-fag Toreador vampires, I doubt she's in hiding over the Prince's death. More like the egg on her face from choosing the wrong guy to back.

Danya keeps talking, even though I've given her no indication one way or the other if I'm interested or even sympathetic—of which I am barely.

She says, "I don't know when you met that Nosferatu. You look pretty enough still that maybe you haven't had too much of his blood."

Ha.

"And your friend here," she says, gesturing to Kyle, "might not be able to say the same."

"Kyle's only been with us for ten years."

"Oh. I had assumed you were younger since he was the… I apologize. I'm jumping to conclusions. I don't usually talk to other ghouls. I don't know the protocol these days."

Don't ask, don't tell usually works for me.

"I have been in this world for more than one hundred years. You would think I could pick up a few things?" She laughs lightly.

She looks like she maybe hit twenty by the time the former Prince got at her. She looks good for a century. As a ghoul, you get all the positives from eternal life from extra healing to added strength and speed. We're no match for a full blooded vampire, but then again we can still walk around in the sun.

But hearing that Danya's been around as long as she has makes me not trust her. I've met a few ghouls like her. They might as well be vampires for all they've been through. They aren't ambitious and cruel like a vampire, but they aren't in touch with their humanity any more either.

It does, however, explain to me why she's gotten chatty: unless she finds a new Blood donor, these next few weeks are Danya's last.

I don't know why, I'm not trying to be friendly, but I ask her, "Where are you from originally?"

She seems to smile. "A town just outside of Bucharest. Dobroesti. It is a good city. You?"

"L.A.," I lie, casual and cool. "Do you miss it?"

Danya is wistful for a moment but ultimately says no. "I prefer America. Don't you?"

I laugh as I light up another cigarette. "Parts aren't bad. But I could do without New York right about now."

"Go easy on her. She's had it rough the past decade."

I roll my eyes. "So have other places, you know. Some are still rebuilding."

Danya motions to an empty spot on the horizon. "So are we. Master Balo did everything he could to keep our enemies at bay. But even the most well thought out precautions can end up useless. Like last night. He thought Mr. Pembroke was the next obvious choice for Prince. Now I do not know who will be first to take offense at the change of power, the Ravnos or the Assamites."

"Who?" I know every major line of vampires, but I want to hear what Danya knows.

"They are independent clans of Kindred, not associated with the Camarilla. Master Balo's people and Master Balo's enemies respectively."

"What do they have to do with any of this?"

Danya sighs. "He afforded the Ravnos clan privacy and hunting grounds while he ruled. I doubt the new Prince will be so inclined to favor them. As for the Assamites, Master Balo was keeping a tenuous peace with them after the attacks on the Towers."

Ah, shit. "Look, I know I asked, but you didn't have to tell me that. I'm… not going to be on some hit list for knowing this, am I?"

"You'll be fine. No one but Master Balo knew I was aware of these things. I might never be able to tell anyone in the future. Someone should hear it, shouldn't they?"

Okay, but did it have to be me?

She's changing the subject now which is a good thing. I don't want to hear any more about whatever games the Camarilla are playing with the Independents. I'm just a ghoul, leave me out of it!

"I don't know what to do," Danya says. "I don't know where to go without him."

"If you only have a few weeks, home might be a good start."

Danya nods.

The sun's down, so I say my goodbyes to Kyle and tell Danya I'll be back tomorrow.

* * *

That night, I help at the bar even though I'm not on the schedule. The crash of the drums and the screaming vocals from the live band help get my mind off things.

Unfortunately, Cherry's in tonight to dance. She's ghouled to Rusty, one of the few vampires I've ever seen Zane trust. I'd like to say that means I can trust him, too, but anyone who would bleed for that girl has to have something wrong with him.

I haven't talked to Cherry since the Massacre. I had half-hoped I wouldn't have to for a while longer. She's been chatty with Kyle a lot the past few weeks and, apparently, has it in her head that we're all joined at the hip now. Just because we survived shared trauma doesn't mean I want to be constantly reminded of it.

Once she's on her break, Cherry is instantly at the bar. As she ignores the advances of patrons, she tells me about "the injustices" Kyle's suffering. I almost disappear into the sub-basement to get away from her, but I know her break will be over soon.

"I told Svetlana," she says, mentioning the ghoul of the other vampire Zane trusts, "that I don't think any of this is fair."

"Uh-huh." I mix her another shot of Anti-Freeze, wishing it was the real stuff. What does _fair_ have to do with vampire society anyway?

Cherry says, "If they want to hurt Kyle, they need to know we're going to stand together."

"Sure."

"So I told Svetlana, if Kyle's got three months to go, then I'm going three months without a drink either."

She looks down at the shot I placed in front of her and titters.

"I mean, you know… _drink_ drink. Not this stuff." Cherry shoots the alcohol, smiles, and pushes the glass back my way for another.

I strain the excess mixture from the last shot into her glass.

She says, "You with us?"

"On what exactly?"

"You know! No _drink_ for three months. I'm telling Rusty, if they're gonna punish Kyle for being a hero like that, then they gotta punish me with him."

The idea is so stupid, I don't even laugh at her. Instead, not caring who hears me or if Cherry registers the sarcasm in my voice, I say, "Sure. I'll go three months without Blood."

And end up like Danya.

"Good for you, sweetie! I'm going to go see him tonight, after I'm done here." Cherry takes the shot, downs it, and blows me a kiss as she leaves. "We'll show them!"

Sister Suffragette goes back to her cage to dance for ghoul solidarity.

This is what I have to look forward to in New York now, huh?

* * *

I leave _Sang's_ once we're closed, and tell Zane I'm going for a walk to find some cigarettes. But once I have them, I keep going. My frustrations are mounting, and if I don't let something out I'm going to burst. Or snap. And do something I'll regret.

I don't even want to be here anymore! At first, everything was working out. Zane sold his info for the protection of the Cam Prince and his court. They'd seemed happy to provide it. They even set him up with a block of the city all to his own. He was back with the music and the party crowd. It seemed right.

Then, when the first signs of the Sabbat were in town, what did the Prince do? Punish us! We'd needed his help, and instead, he threw it back in our faces.

It's not like we have options this time. City-hopping would be so much harder on Zane now.

And who knows, he might have made the wrong enemies. His face could be scratched on Haven walls across the Coast. No, he needs the Cam despite what little they've provided. A plastic shield may be better than nothing.

There's no way around it. The New York vampires have us trapped.

I look up from my wandering to realize I've landed a quarter of the way out onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

Ho. Ly. Fuck.

My hands snap closed around the steel-wire webbing that surrounds the pedestrian walkway. I know-I _know_-that there's no way to fall from the middle of a bridge. There are lanes of highway between me and the East River. But rationalizing this situation is not going to help.

God damn you, New York! I can't go for a walk without you fucking with me, can I?

Not caring who hears me, I scream out to the night, "You were supposed to be different! You said we would be safe!"

The words echo back at me, mixed with the sounds of the river below and the trucks rushing off to their deliveries.

The wind picks up around me. I sway for a moment and feel inches away from the edge, but my anger is my strength.

I snarl, "Why did I trust you would be different? Fuck you, you Camarilla scum!"

A scream rips through my body, low and bestial, and filled with the rage of too many betrayals.

I burn through enough Blood to run back across the bridge without fear gripping my mind. When I'm on solid ground, I consider asking Zane to climb the Statue of Liberty to spit in her face for me. Instead, I spend the rest of the night seething and wandering the city looking for a fight. So help me, New York, you will wish I had never stepped foot on your putrid soil!


End file.
